


Lost my fear of drowning

by iiscos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, mythical creatures AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:39:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2588681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gareth supposes he should be alarmed—perhaps even outraged—to find a strange man in his cruise ship cabin, sporting nothing but a thin layer of water and the yellow floral shirt he had received from Sergio upon arriving in Lima.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost my fear of drowning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for futbal-minibang. Be sure to check out the [lovely banner](http://futbal-minibang.livejournal.com/10096.html) done by penny_jordan!

They stay at Sergio's the evening before their flight, in his basement more precisely, with mattresses tiling the carpeted floors and their packed suitcases stacked like a fort at a young boy's sleepover. Gareth is passing out the blankets when Sergio returns with five shot glasses and half a bottle of whiskey, his mischievous grin met with audible groans.

"No man, I hate that stuff." Cristiano pinches his nose. "And we have to get up by six tomorrow."

"It'll help you sleep, then." Sergio pushes a glass into Cristiano's reluctant hand. "Come on, splitting this five ways? It's nothing. Besides, I'm not leaving it for my brother to mooch off of after we're gone."

Upon the Spaniard's beckoning, they gather at the edge of the mattresses—Iker, Marcelo, Cristiano, and Gareth.

Sergio raises his glass. "Here's to finishing college with my best friends, the end and the beginning. Here's to the rest of our lives."

They down their shot after the Spaniard's impromptu speech, returning to their designated positions, blankets and pillows in tow. Gareth squeezes his eyes shut only to see dancing colors, the pounding of his heart drowning out the sounds of the night. And it's already hard enough to sleep on his own, without the constant shifting of his friends by his side, or the thrill of what awaits them tomorrow. For the next six weeks, they will be in South America, traveling through the depth of the Great Amazon on the magnificent cruise ship Costa Magica. The river will dictate their journey—from the basins of Peru to the northern bank in Colombia, traversing the jungles of Brazil to the gaping mouth that empties into the Atlantic. It is as exhilarating as it is bittersweet, this grand voyage shared between five good friends. It will be their last opportunity—one final fantastic adventure—before returning to the cities that holds their futures and the doorways that lead to the lives of adults.

~~

Gareth supposes he should be alarmed—perhaps even outraged—to find a strange man in his cruise ship cabin, sporting nothing but a thin layer of water and the yellow floral shirt he had received from Sergio upon arriving in Lima.

"Uh… _qué estás hacienda_ —" the Welshman stumbles clumsily over the tricky, foreign syllables, grimacing in frustration. "Oh, who am I kidding—What're you doing here? Who the hell are you?"

The man—boy really, after closer inspection, sweet-faced and barely pushing twenty years—turns to Gareth bemusedly, shirt unbuttoned and leaving nothing to the imagination.

"This is my cabin," Gareth states, his eyes resolutely fixed on the other's face. "You shouldn't be here. Can you understand me? _Hablar Inglés_?"

The boy flashes a confident smile, charming and enigmatic and leaving Gareth feeling a bit stupid. A horrible knot forms in the Welshman's stomach, as the boy takes a daring step forward, followed by another and another, until he is close enough for Gareth to learn the color of his eyes—an umber so dark that it's almost black.

The boy touches his wrist, his palms wet and scorching against the Welshman's pallid skin. And before Gareth can even register the unexpected contact, eager lips meet his own in a fervent, licentious kiss—drawing out a rather embarrassing sound that shocked even the Welshman himself.

Teasing fingers brush the hairs at his neck and a steady palm finds the space between his shoulder blades. Meanwhile, Gareth's own hands hover gracelessly around the strange boy, unsure of where to touch or if they should touch at all.

It doesn't take long before the boy is pulling at his shirt, pressing their chests together, and guiding the tentative Welshman to the edge of the double mattress across the room. Gareth allows himself to be pushed onto his back, resting on his elbows as the boy straddles his waist.

"Whoa, slow down, will you?" Gareth protests—although only vocally—as deft fingers make quick work of his white button-down shirt. The boy smiles as if he understands but chooses to ignore the request, opting to lick along the Welshman's jawline instead.

Gareth feels his mind running a mile a minute, desperate to make sense of the almost surreal situation. Who is this boy? A thief? A con artist? An unknowing participant in a humorless prank? It wouldn't be the first time Marcelo sent a consort to Gareth's living quarters as a practical joke. But that wouldn't explain why the boy is drenched to the core, as if he had braved the Amazon to be here. Should Gareth be worried about violent psychoses or even catching a STD?

Nevertheless, it's incredibly difficult to adhere to logic when someone so attractive is grinning so lustfully, and Gareth supposes this boy _is_ beautiful—improbably so—almost _too_ good-looking to be true.

And while his mind inevitably loses the battle against his libido, the boy above him ducks beneath his chin to kiss at his collarbone and chest, palms exploring his hips and thighs, as a teasing finger flicks over the zipper teeth of his pants.

"Fuck," Gareth groans to the ceiling, when a skillful tongue meet the dip of his navel, trailing the faint hairs that disappear beyond his waistband.

His pants are quickly undone and pulled aside, and the sight and sensation that follows—as warm, eager lips wrap around his flushed cockhead—is perhaps the most lecherous yet satisfying thing the Welshman has ever experienced.

Gareth gets the finest blowjob of his life that evening. The festive music and tapping feet against the elevated deck of Costa Magica fade to nothing but a distant echo in his clouded mind.

~~

After his own climax, Gareth dutifully returns the favor, only for the strange boy to interpret as an invitation for a second round. Usually, the Welshman would not protest such turn of events, but jet lag and travel fatigue have taken their toll, and Gareth doesn't even realize that he had fallen asleep _during_ sex until he wakes up in his cabin, alone and sticky beneath his bunched up shorts.

He glances around the room, and everything appears as it had been earlier that evening, his luggage in its initial, unpacked state. Gareth feels warmth rising to his cheeks, as a twinge of embarrassment festers in the pit his stomach. How would he have felt if someone had fallen asleep while with him? His time with the boy—as brief and bizarre as it might have been—was far from unpleasant, and hopefully, the boy doesn't take this as a personal insult.

Showered and freshly dressed, the Welshman emerges from his cabin and climbs onto the open deck, to the heart of the festivity. He maneuvers past the men and women swaying to the wild strumming of mandolins, and others sitting at long tables stacked with rice delicacies and spiced meats. He sees Sergio and Iker at the bar, with giggling girls attached to their arms, while Marcelo perches at a table with Cristiano, whispering into the Portuguese's ear and avidly watching the dance floor.

"Where the hell have you been, _hombre_?" the Brazilian greets as Gareth takes a seat beside his two friends. "You've missed half the party."

"Fell asleep," the Welshman sheepishly replies, which technically isn't a lie, "I was tired."

Marcelo rolls his eyes. "Christ, you're such a senior citizen sometimes. But now that you're here, maybe you can help a brother out."

"Just drop it, _please_ ," Cristiano groans into his drink. "You're making a big deal out of nothing."

"What's the matter?" Gareth asks, and Marcelo nudges his shoulder, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

"Cris wanted to talk up that hot Russian chick, and now he's all pouty because she's dancing with some dude who has Ramos' sense of fashion."

Gareth turns to the dance floor and finds a clearance in the center, where the boy from before—dressed in _his_ ugly yellow shirt—is twirling a leggy brunette in a lusty, fast-paced samba.

"—And I was telling Cris to go after his girl, man." Gareth barely registers that Marcelo is still talking. "You're just as good-looking and can dance just as well, so it's worth the shot. Am I right?"

In that moment, the boy catches Gareth staring, and his face lights up in a brilliant way that not even the pretty girl in his arms had managed to elicit—or Gareth would like to believe.

The strange boy releases the Russian brunette and edges closer to their table. Gareth swallows his nerves, managing a small smile and an awkward wave.

"You know this asshole?" Marcelo whispers into his ear, and the Welshman pushes him away, eyes never leaving their approaching visitor.

The boy stops before the three friends, nodding and smiling in a silent greeting. He reaches across the table and grabs Gareth by the wrist, his palm no longer wet but just as scorching. Gareth rises to his feet and follows the boy into the crowd, feeling the weight of questioning looks on his back and shoulders.

It's probably not what Marcelo had in mind, but Gareth did manage to wrench Cristiano's girl from the beautiful boy.

~~

The next morning, Gareth wakes to a lone streak of sunlight creeping past the thick, velvet curtains. He pushes himself to a sitting position and rubs the stiffness at his neck. Cristiano is snoring softly beside him, sprawled out and taking up most of the space on the double bed. Gareth does a quick glance over and realizes it's Cristiano's room, but both of them have a respectable amount of clothes on, so hopefully nothing outrageous had happened.

The Welshman pinches his eyes shut and attempts to recall whatever fragmented memories he might have retained, but not before staggering to the bathroom and heaving the contents of his stomach into the toilet. His reflection stares miserably back from the mirror beside him—hair damp and tousled, skin ashen, and features contorted in pain. A black, teardrop crystal dangles from a silver chain around his neck, a gift from the strange boy, Gareth is almost certain.

Two tablets of aspirin await him, neatly placed on top of a napkin on the bathroom sink. Gareth does not question their presence, popping them into his mouth and swallowing with a mouthful of tap water. And once his mind no longer threatened to tear in two, the Welshman finally manages to _think_.

He remembers drink after colorful drink, even as his vision blurred and the ground beneath his feet felt like air. But a brilliant smile had urged him on, lulling him onto the dance floor beneath ribbons and hanging lights. Gareth remembers the beautiful boy against his lips, in his arms, dressed in his clothing. But he does not remember learning his name.

Gareth searches for the boy—from the deck to the lounges to every compartment of the ship he is allowed access. He talks to the passengers and crewmembers, and while some recognize the vague descriptions he has to offer, no one knows exactly whom the beautiful boy is or where he may be found. Gareth searches in the days to follow but to no avail, as if the boy simply disappeared from the ship with the coming of dawn.

~~

On the night that marks their first week, Costa Magica docks along the festive shores of Leticia, Colombia's major port city on the Amazon River. Land bound for the evening, the passengers indulge in the local culture, their excursion coinciding neatly with the climax of summer. Gareth watches the kite show with Cristiano, who wears bead necklaces in alternating Colombian colors. Iker and Sergio are ordering drinks to go with their sweetened meat dishes, while Marcelo flirts with a local girl dressed in white flounces.

The Welshman has not seen the beautiful boy in nearly a week and was perhaps on the brink of losing hope. But as soon as he catches the familiar figure among the Colombian street performers—strumming a small Spanish guitar alongside older gentlemen playing for tips—Gareth detaches from his friends without a moment's hesitation, zigzagging against the current of the crowd until he is within earshot of the lively folk music.

Women holding candles wave their long flowery skirts, while men with red handkerchiefs dance behind them, tipping their hats. Gareth watches and waits, until the boy finally notices him among the sea of faces and smiles as if he had shared the same wild hope of finding the other.

As the drum beats taper off, and the last chords are delicately strummed, the boy surrenders his guitar to the nearest waiting hand, before making his way towards the applauding crowd.

An older gentleman—roughly fifty years of age—catches the boy's elbow, his stern gray mustache arching in a dour frown. Gareth watches as the man whispers into the boy's ear, something indiscernible but harsh, and causing the boy to grimace and shrug away. Whatever the information divulged might be, the boy has chosen to ignore it.

"James!" The older man bellows after the retreating figure. "James!"

Gareth opens his arms to receive the boy, who wraps his own around the Welshman's waist. He kisses Gareth chastely on the corner of his lips.

"Your name is James," Gareth says, and the boy smiles and nods. "My name is Gareth. I'm so happy to have found you."

~~

Gareth considers himself a patient man, always mindful of his partner's boundaries, never one to rush into anything without absolute consent. James is almost comically the opposite—guileless, fervent, insatiable.

It has been two weeks of clandestine meetings, hasty blowjobs, and semi-clothed fucks, before the Welshman manages to steal an evening solely for them—away from his prying friends and the rigid schedule of their tour—so that he can finally have James the way he wants, sprawled out and bare on his hotel room mattress, begging to be ravished.

James is keening softly, hands gripping at the sheets by his head, teeth sinking into reddened lips. He shivers as he grinds his hips, impaling himself on Gareth's fingers and urging the Welshman onwards.

Gareth stills the boy and shushes gently, kissing his trembling stomach before licking a lazy strip across the dip of his navel. James lifts his hips, only to meet air.

"Patience," the Welshman hums, pressing a kiss to the tip of his cock. James makes a desperate sound and thrusts against his mouth, only for Gareth to frustratingly withdraw.

The Welshman twists his fingers, pushing until they are buried to the knuckle. He rubs against a spot that leaves James gasping, fists clenched around the pillow above his head. Gareth had kindly asked him not to touch himself, and James—with great strength of will—has managed to do so.

"So fucking pretty," Gareth mumbles, leaning forward and trailing his lips along the boy's jawline. He kisses the corner of his mouth, nipping gently at his lower lip, and James opens readily to allow him access.

Gareth retracts his fingers, leaving only the tips inside, pressing against the fluttering ring of muscle. James writhes, whimper muffled against the Welshman's humored grin. He teases the boy until he is boneless beneath him, whining and choking back a sob when Gareth finally presses his cock to the warm, wet entrance.

"Let me fuck you, yeah?" He says, running a palm along the length of the boy's thigh, until long legs are wrapped snugly around his waist. James nods, burying his face in the crook of the Welshman's neck.

Gareth grunts as he slowly slides in, his lover's teeth against his shoulder a much needed distraction. He stills, giving the boy ample time to adjust, until James is pleading with his eyes and grinding his hips in an attempt to speed things up.

"Okay, okay, no more teasing," the Welshman coos, lips brushing against short, thick hair.

He sets his angle and thrusts at a steady pace, drinking in the sight of James arching and moaning, face flushed and eyes wet. Gareth presses his lips to a trembling eyelid, kissing away a tear clumping the boy's lashes. He takes James into his hand and feels his entire body shake, the heat around his cock tightening impossibly.

And the sound James makes as he comes alone is enough to push Gareth over the edge.

~~

"Every culture has its tales of shape shifters, charlatans, and creatures of the night, and _Brasil_ is no exception. _Encantado_ is a word in Brazilian Portuguese that roughly translates to 'enchanted one,' a term used for river-dwelling spirits who take on either the form of a human or an animal—particularly the boto, the long-beaked freshwater dolphin of the Amazon." Gareth feels his eyes grow heavy as he teeters on the brink of sleep. The night air is warm and thick with the heady scent of jungle flowers, and the singsong voice of their overenthusiastic tour guide is all but a foggy echo in the Welshman's mind.  It had been Sergio's idea to explore the once quaint village of Cordeiro, although much of its integrity has been altered by tourism. Their guided tour centers on local myths and legends, and while the wooden boats along shallow, swampy canals added to the eerie ambiance, Gareth can't help but stifle his yawns to the gentle rocking of artificial waves. Nights spent with James have become more and more frequent, which means the Welshman hardly ever slept.

"The _encantados_ are curious creatures, often drawn to festivals and outdoor parties where they can enjoy music and dancing. In human form, they are fair-skinned and graceful, often fond of bright colors. Their transformation is never complete, however—the most prominent feature a blowhole atop of their heads. Nevertheless, the stronger the magic, the less evident the imperfections." Gareth thumbs absently at his black teardrop necklace, the gem surprising cool beneath the pad of his finger. He jolts awake when Marcelo pushes a finger between his ribs, his sudden movement causing the entire boat to rock, earning the Welshman a few cautioning looks.

"In addition to their shape shifting abilities,  _encantados_ are also known to beguile humans into doing their will. Kidnapping is a common theme in these myths.  _Encantados_ abduct the humans they fall in love with—often young, beautiful girls—before bringing them back to  _Encante_ , the paradisiacal underwater realm of their origin. Most of the girls are never seen again, at least not alive or sane."

Marcelo pokes him once more, and Gareth is prepared this time, catching the Brazilian's wrist before he can withdraw.

"What do you want?" Gareth hisses, shooting his friend the dirtiest look he can muster. But instead of the usual outlandish smile, the Welshman is met with a pair of worried eyes.

"Dude, we need to talk—about James."

Gareth lofts a brow. "What about James?"

"There's something really off about that kid—I just think—"

The tour guide glances at them in the wake of their furtive whispers, and Marcelo snaps his jaw shut, smiling demurely.

"Children are kept from riverside at night," she continues, "and holy men are sometimes called upon, to drive away _encantados_ and dispel them of their magic. While belief in _encantados_ is waning, there remains a large population of South Americans who fervently assert their existence."

~~

Later that night, upon arriving at their hotel, Marcelo inevitably pulls Gareth aside to voice his concerns. "James isn't a passenger on our cruise. And he sure as hell doesn't work on the ship."

The Welshman shrugs. "So?"

"I see the two of you together. In every city we've stopped at so far. That's over 500 miles."

"He plays the guitar and the mandolin with those Colombian street performers. They're probably a traveling band. It's no big deal."

"Did he tell you that?"

Gareth stares blankly at his friend for a moment. "Well, no. He doesn't really—"

"Jesus, Gareth!" Marcelo grips onto his shoulders, his face grimaced in frustration. "What the hell is wrong with you? Don't you see that there's something wrong with this entire— _thing_ you have with that guy? He's practically stalking you!"

"For fuck's sake." The Welshman shrugs away the Brazilian's hand, feeling unfathomably defensive, although he is hardly surprised that this conversation is taking place. "This _thing_ I have with James is none of your business."

Perhaps his voice was a decibel too loud, or his movement a touch too sudden, but Gareth captures the attention of the rest of his crew, who turn to them with questioning looks.

"Let's not get all worked up, now," Iker attempts to be a calming influence, "I'm sure Marcelo is just trying to help."

The Brazilian frowns, voice dropping to a grim octave. Intentional or not, they certainly have an audience now. "Two nights ago, just as we were leaving Manaus, I saw James diving into the harbor."

"I see local kids do that all the time," Cristiano says, "Especially around fishing villages. They're good swimmers."

"We were going 30 miles an hour!" Marcelo protests. "And he caught up to us. I saw him climbing onto the stern of the ship and—Michael Phelps doesn't swim that fast. Fucking _dolphins_ don't swim that fast!"

Gareth swallows thickly, unsure of how to respond. James did visit his cabin that night, once again drenched in river water. They spent an amazing night together, and Gareth didn't ask any questions. He never asks questions when it comes to James.

"Christ, Marcelo. You sound crazy." Cristiano furrows his brows.

"Maybe James is one of those Inca-tardos," Sergio snickers, "Or whatever the hell they're called."

" _Encantado_ ," Marcelo corrects, but his face remains serious. Gareth feels goose bumps on the back of his neck.

"Don't tell me you believe that stuff." Sergio claps both the Brazilian and the Welshman on the back. "Besides don't these were-dolphins only go for pretty, young virgins? All we have is Gareth, here."

~~

"When I go back to Wales, would you come with me?" Gareth asks one night, just as James' lashes flutter shut and his breath begins to even.

"Or would you rather I stay here?" he adds when he receives no response. James shifts beside him, face buried in the crook of his neck.

James never speaks. He has the ability to—judging by his gasps, and moans, and even laughter—but for some unfathomable reason, he chooses not to, not even with Marcelo or Sergio who can perhaps transcend the language barrier. Sex is one of the few instances where Gareth gets to hear his voice, and as peculiar as it may be, words hardly seem necessary between them. Their movements, breaths, and heartbeats are a language on their own.

Sex is never complicated, but the lives of people are, and this conversation had been on Gareth's mind for awhile now, with their time together slipping like sand through fingers.

"Can you tell me what you want?" Gareth says, and James kisses him on the neck, chin, and finally the lips, almost apologetically.

South America has been dreamlike, and no dream is meant to last.

~~

They stay their last night in a small town just outside of Macapá. Festivals are drawing to a close, and Gareth watches wistfully as storeowners take down the once vibrant decorations festooning the shops and trees outside. He has dinner with Cristiano that night, in a local restaurant that looks out onto the bank of the Amazon. The oysters taste bland on his tongue, and Cristiano for once, makes up most of the conversation.

A quarter to midnight, Gareth finds James in the village square, the younger boy looking apprehensive under the dimming lights of streets and buildings. There hardly is a soul around by then.

"What's the matter?" Gareth asks, running his hands down the other's arms. They are damp but drying, and the same can be said for the boy's black tank and cargo shorts.

James naturally says nothing, and lets Gareth pull him close by the waist and kiss him on the forehead and cheek. "Let me show you where we're staying the night."

~~

Gareth is dreaming of cloud pillars, white sand, and black teardrops of rain when the door to his room is slammed open. He feels James tense before being ripped from his arms, as shadowed figures yank and pull at the sheets above them.

"Wh— _Fuck_ —What's going on?" Gareth fumbles blindly in the dark, only to be held down by firm hands.

James lets out a small cry before getting shoved out the door, and that is enough to cause Gareth to rebel anew, kicking at one intruder and elbowing the other in the nose. He stumbles out the door after the boy, gripping onto the sheets around his waist and trying not to trip over them. He collides into Marcelo just outside the main doors of the hotel lobby, the latter startled and wide-eyed.

"Did you—" Gareth's features contort in rage. "What did you do?"

"I—I just said that we—I don't know! I don't know what's going on!" Marcelo seems genuinely terrified, and Gareth decides it's not worth the time, not when the village square is glowing fire red, and a sinking feeling in his gut tells him that is where James is. He runs in that direction and Marcelo follows.

Iker, Sergio, and Cristiano are already there among an audience of villagers, watching on in horror as a mass of twenty something men—some waving torches, other large sticks and sharps—push James to the ground. His hands and knees scrape open on the uneven cobblestone pavement. He's wearing nothing but a pair of Gareth's boxers.

A graying man in dark, layered robes tugs harshly at the boy's hair, turning his head from side to side. He throws a powder in his face, and James screams, his voice sharp and chilling in the empty night.

The boy crumbles to the floor, clutching at his eyes, just as another man collides his boot with his midriff, causing him to fall onto his side.

"Fuck!" Gareth shouts, lunging at the hooded figures, only to be held back once again. "Get the fuck away from him!"

He hears Marcelo yelling in Brazilian Portuguese, pushing past the Welshman only to receive the same treatment.

The old man grips onto James' hair again, tugging so that his face is in clear view. James squeezes his eyes shut, tears streaking his cheeks and washing away the dust that is glowing like embers on his skin.

The old man shouts something harsh that Gareth cannot understand. He shoves James until his forehead is pressed to the dirt and parts his hair to reveal an opening atop his head, so small that only a thumb can fit through.

" _Encantado_ ," Marcelo whispers. James looks up at them, the whites of his eyes turning dark like ink in water.

A man spits on him, while two others kick at his chest and thighs. James takes the beating in mostly silence—no threats, no pleading—just small, muffled grunts every time a blow is dealt. He bleeds red like all the rest.

"Stop!" Gareth begs, his voice betraying him, cracking as he shouts at seemingly deaf ears. "Leave him alone! Please!"

It lasts forever, and Gareth has never felt so helpless in his life. He wishes James would stop trying to sit up. Maybe the beating will end in the wake of resignation.

" _Suma_." The old man says, after James receives a blow to the stomach that completely winds him, leaving him coughing blood.

James pushes himself onto elbows and knees, shaking his head.

" _Vá ta catar_!" The old man shouts, as James is pulled into a sitting position, before a cruel strike is dealt to his already bruised cheek. The mob has cleared a path behind them. It is evident that James is allowed to leave.

Gareth wrenches an arm free and waves it madly. "Just go! Get out of here!"

James sobs through uneven breaths, locking eyes with Gareth from across the square—desperate, apologetic.

"It's okay, James." The Welshman resists the tremble in his voice. "Just leave. I'll look for you, I promise."

James staggers to his feet, clutching his arms to his midriff as he limps towards the only opening in the wall of people. Blood trickles down his right knee, leaving a trail of shining black in the matted dirt. The villagers spit and jeer and chuck whatever they can get their hands on, but the boy remains resolute, never once turning back as he vanishes beyond the darkness of the jungle.

~~

They were held for three days in the tiny, rustic village. The locals treated them well, fed them wonderfully, and attended to all their needs—the only freedom kept from them was the freedom to leave. They feared the _encantado's_ magic, Marcelo had explained, which will only vanish with time.

Such argument would hardly stand in court, so Gareth and his friends were released in no time when legal services finally arrived to free them from detainment. And subsequently, it had been fairly easy for the Welshman to slip away from the hospital he was sent to—more for psychological trauma than anything.

After two days of hitchhiking, Gareth finally reaches the eastern bank of the Amazon River, just as the red-orange hues of the sunset fade to black. James is already waiting for him before the setting sun, unblemished and undressed like the first time they had met. The river water glistens and obscures his lower half.

Gareth halts in his stride only when the toe of his shoe is touching water.

"Tell me." He licks his drying lips. "Tell me what's going on."

James' eyes flutter shut as the wind picks up. Gareth hears a soft clatter and looks down to find a seashell among the rocks by his feet. A thin thread spun from grass loops through the hole at the base.

Gareth instinctively feels for the gem at his chest and finds it gone. He turns to James for an explanation, only to find a large boto in his place—pale pink under the rising moon, dusted with gray freckles.

The Welshman enters the water, his footsteps clumsy and hindered by the uneven river bottom. He walks until the boto is within reach, the water rising beyond his waist. He stares into those beady, black eyes and runs his hands along the domed forehead and long beak lined with sharp small teeth. He has never seen such a creature up close. The boto looks primitive, ancient, mythical.

Gareth closes his eyes, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to the tip of the boto's beak. When he opens them again, it is James before him, head bowed and silently weeping. Gareth wraps the boy in his arms, tucking his head beneath his chin.

"It's okay," Gareth reassures, even though he hardly knows what okay means. He rubs soothing circles on the other's back, until James has calmed down enough to keep steady in his arms.

They stay for what feels like an eternity, and even then Gareth knows it would never be enough. James separates himself from the embrace and takes the Welshman's hand between his own. He searches Gareth's face cautiously, before tugging gently at his hand, leading him to the deeper end of the river.

Gareth follows with trepidation until the water rises beyond his chest, collarbone, neck, until he is no longer treading on ground but water beneath his feet. James remains by his side, arms wrapped around his waist, lips pressed to the angle of his cheek.

He ducks beneath the water, expecting Gareth to imitate his actions, and returns when the Welshman does no such thing.

"I—I'm scared," Gareth says, humiliation washing over.

James kisses him reassuringly and gives him all the time he needs, before immersing beneath the surface again. This time Gareth follows.

He squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the burning inside his lungs and the panic of his logical mind, as his cells scream for oxygen. He grips James' hand with such strength that it must hurt, but James remains by his side—a comforting presence—until the Welshman sees bright lights dancing beyond his eyelids and feels the cushion of dry sand beneath his feet. The water around them is replaced with air, and when Gareth inhales, he can smell honeysuckle and meadowsweet in the warm, mid-afternoon breeze.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback would be lovely xx


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